Diagnosis
by hawkeyesbutt
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes is diagnosed with Leukaemia, John Watson has to care for him as his condition deteriorates quickly. Along the way, John finds out more about Sherlock's past. Johnlock in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

"Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid you've been diagnosed with leukaemia." The words stayed still in the air for a moment. Sherlock Holmes sat in front of the doctor, questioning himself.  
"Alright." He replied.  
"We can give you chemotherapy and we have plenty of other treatments for leukaemia, obviously your recovery is not certain and even if we get rid of it we cannot be sure that it won't return-"  
"What if I don't respond to the treatments? How long will I live?"  
"Mr. Holmes, leukaemia never really has a specific time-"  
"What is the average time from diagnosis?"  
"5 years, which is still a long time-"  
"Alright. I'll be off then."  
"Wait, Mr. Holmes, we need to discuss medication to slow down the-"  
"Couldn't you send the details to my doctor?" He asked impatiently. "Dr. John Watson."  
Sherlock closed the door and headed down the surgery. He went to the reception desk. "Is Dr. Watson on his break at the moment?"  
"Yes, he should be." The receptionist responded, pointing down the hall to his room. Sherlock walked down the corridor and knocked on the door labelled "Dr. Watson". He heard a quiet "come in" as Sherlock entered.  
"Oh hi, Sherlock," he looked confused. "What are you doing here?"  
"I had a doctors appointment and I thought that it was necessary to tell you the results. That's what friends do, isn't it?"  
"Um, yes, I suppose." John lent forward on his desk, waiting for the diagnosis.  
"John, I've got leukaemia."  
John sat still for a minute. He looked down. Then he looked back up again. "Leukaemia?"  
"Yes."  
John put his hand through his hair. "Are you alright with it?"  
"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"  
"Because you... Never mind, wait here a second, I'm knocking off early."  
"Why?"  
"Because friends are more important that work."

When Sherlock and John arrived back at 221B Baker Street, John had wanted to have a conversation about it. A proper talk. He signified for Sherlock to sit down in his chair while John sat in his. "Sherlock," he started. "How much do you know about leukaemia?"  
"Not much," Sherlock said. "I've never had a case where it was important. Cancer isn't a murderer you can catch."  
"Alright. Would you like me to tell you about leukaemia?"  
That afternoon, John went through how leukaemia was caused and the symptoms and treatments and side effects you could get. Sherlock sat contently listening for once, his eyes never leaving John's. "When you have chemotherapy, it is most likely that your hair will fall out." John said.  
Something flashed in Sherlock's eyes, but John didn't know what. Sherlock had never been that interested in his appearance, had he? Why would he care? "Is-is that alright?"  
Sherlock smiled, all traces of the different emotion gone. "Of course, John. Thank you for giving me all this information."  
John had noticed Sherlock blinking a lot ever since they got home, more than usual. Not that John took into account how many time a day Sherlock blinked, but it was obvious when the speed quickened or slowed. Sherlock stood up, a slight wobble on him which you wouldn't notice if you hadn't been looking... But John had.  
"Anyway, I need- I need to get back to this case-" Sherlock yawned.  
"Sherlock, maybe you should rest-"  
A glint of anger flashed through Sherlock's eyes as he realised his condition would take over his life, and also his job. "Damn it!" Sherlock shouted, throwing the coffee table over. "How am I meant to work in this state?!" His anger kept him awake, so all he felt he could do was keep it up.  
"Sherlock, it's okay, it's okay-"  
"No it's not, John! How am I meant to do these cases if I can't keep my eyes open?!"  
"Sherlock-"  
"I'M FINE. JOHN. I NEED TO SOLVE THIS CASE."  
"Please just-"  
"THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"  
There was a moment of silence, before Sherlock collapsed to the floor. John knelt down next to him, stroking his hair. "Oh Sherlock," he whispered. "Of course something is wrong with you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Authors note:**

**Wow! thank you guys so much for all the follows and favourites. I literally only put chapter 1 up this morning and had no idea I'd get 139 views straight away! Anyway, enjoy the next chapter!**

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When Sherlock woke up, he was in his own bed. He whimpered slightly as he moved; his organs felt like they had been squished together, causing extreme pain. "John," Sherlock said in a raggedy voice. "John!" He called louder. John poked his head around the door to see Sherlock struggling to sit up in bed.

"What's up, Sherlock?" John said, sitting on the side of his bed.

"My-my-" A tear fell down Sherlock's face in agony. "I hurt, John. My body hurts, my organs hurt. My brain hurts." John cautiously pulled Sherlock against him in a sort of leaning hug. Sherlock rested his head against John's chest and sobbed. John rubbed his back, comfortingly. "John," he gasped through the sobs. "Make it stop, make the pain stop," Sherlock wrapped his arms around John now, holding on for support. His grip tightened every time the pain got worse.

"I can't, Sherlock," John whispered. "I wish I could, but I can't."

After two hours of sobbing in pain and clutching onto John, Sherlock had fallen asleep again. John had never seen him in so much pain. He called up the hospital, arranging Sherlock's treatment to be started right away as the symptoms increased. John knew that this was not a good sign. Leukaemia patients would normally live around five years from diagnosis. The effects would take time. You would have time to make decisions about your treatment and discuss everything thoroughly with several doctors. Sherlock was not normal, though, and this was not a normal leukaemia case. The quicker the illness took effect, the less time he had to recover. John left the flat for 40 minutes to pick up some medication for Sherlock, which would hopefully subdue the pain. When he arrived home, Sherlock was calling John's name again. A wave of guilt hit John, as he had no idea how long Sherlock could have been calling for him. He quickly ran to Sherlock's room, opening the door. Sherlock lay on the floor, obviously from trying to get out of bed and falling over. A symptom of leukaemia was that your muscles would weaken and your skin would break easily, producing blood or bruises at the smallest hit. John lifted Sherlock up, putting him back onto the bed. "Shhh, shhh, it's alright, I'm here now."

"John," he said through broken sobs, "Kill me."

"What?" John replied, astounded. Had he heard correctly?

"I can't live like this, John," Sherlock gasped for air, "The pain is worse than death itself!"

"Sherlock calm down, I have something for the pain-"

"It won't last forever! Please, get rid of my misery!" He clutched John's arm, his eyes were insane and John saw the sweat on his brow. _Fever_, John thought. _Delusional._

He opened the bag and took out 10 different bottles of medication. "I know this is hard, but you need to listen to me and take one of each of these and the pain will subside," John said, looking into Sherlock's crazy eyes. "Do you understand?" Sherlock whimpered and nodded. As soon as John stood up to get him a glass of water, Sherlock panicked.

"Don't leave! Don't leave!" Sherlock couldn't even be himself in this level of agony. He had been reduced to a child. John hushed him, informing him he would be back in a second. He returned with two glasses of water and cold flannel. He placed the flannel across Sherlock's head, and started undoing the packaging. John took out one pill from each and gave them to Sherlock. John had to hold the glass of water for Sherlock as his hands were shaking so much. After 8 pills, the shaking had subsided and as the final 2 were taken, Sherlock's heart rate slowed, his breathing taken on a normal-ish pace. After half an hour, Sherlock was back to himself again. "John," he muttered. His voice had returned to the cold, deep tone it usually was.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry you had to see all of that."

"It's okay."

"I've never felt pain like that before," he said, "Well, except for a couple of times in my childhood."

"Why did you feel it then?"

Sherlock glanced up at John. "Not important. I'd rather not discuss my childhood. Those were memories I would happily have forgotten. Could we watch some crap tele?"

John was concerned over Sherlock's words, but smiled at the thought of crap tele. "Of course," he said, "Would you like me to bring it in here or are you able to walk?"

"I'd like to walk to the lounge."

One foot before the other, Sherlock wavered slightly at first, but soon regained his balance. John made him some tea and sat down on the sofa with him. Half way through watching some bad TV programme Sherlock had been shouting at, Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder.

"Tired?" John said.

"A bit," Sherlock replied. "I don't want to sleep again. Not yet. For once in my life, I can describe a moment as 'perfect'."


	3. Chapter 3

A month later, Sherlock had started chemotherapy. He was scared - as most people were about these things - so he asked John to come with him. As Sherlock sat in the waiting room beside John, he couldn't help but slip his hand into John's. John looked at him strangely. "Does it make you uncomfortable?" Sherlock asked.

"No, of course not." John said. "Just caught me off guard a little."

"I just... I needed someone to hold on to." Sherlock turned to John. "I'm scared, John. Ever since this leukaemia started, all I've been doing is associating myself with feelings. I can't handle it."

John rubbed his thumb over Sherlock's hand. "It'll be alright," John said. "I promise."

Another month after starting chemo and Sherlock's body had started reacting to it.

He opened his eyes feeling a bright light shining down in him through the window. He sat up slightly, pulling open his bedside table drawer, taking out his medication. After all 10 pills had been taken, he replaced the bottles and boxes where they were and closed the drawer. He laid back on his pillow his hands running over his face and onto his scalp. Wait... Scalp? Sherlock sat up quickly, looking down at his pillow. A nest of dark brown curly locks lay on the soft material, covering it with hair. Sherlock fell out of bed, dragging himself over to his mirror. He stared cautiously at his head, running his hands over it. He had weird tufts of brown hair sprouting out at the front and vague patches on other areas. Sherlock continued to run his hands over his head, again and again, only to be interrupted by Lestrade banging on the flat door. Sherlock listened intently to John and him talking. "I'll see if he's up for it, wait here."

"John, what's been going on lately? Sherlock hardly ever does cases anymore. Has he lost it or something?"

"...He's fine. Just been a lot more tired recently, that's all."

Thank you, John, Sherlock thought.

There was a knock on the door and Sherlock walked over, holding it shut. "John. My hairs fallen out."

"What? Let me in."

Sherlock moved away from the door and John entered. He stared at Sherlock's head. "Oh god," he muttered. Sherlock sat down on the bed and John sat beside him. He inspected the patches and informed him that it would grow back in a month. "What's this?" He ran his fingers over the huge scar crossing the back of Sherlock's head.

"Not important," Sherlock said quickly.

"Sherlock," John warned.

Sherlock sighed. "Can we talk about it later? I just want to go and solve this case."

"Fine."

Sherlock stood up. "John, I have become even more of a freak to them."

"They can't tease you about this. I won't let them. I'll find you a hat."

As Sherlock and John entered the crime scene, they immediately got to work. Sherlock noticed Donovan staring at his hat.

"John, I feel like an idiot."

"Shhh, you look fine. Let's just finish the case so you can go home and rest."

Sherlock sighed. More sleep. The amount of sleep he now got was a wasteful amount. The things he could be doing while he's sleeping. It hurt his brain to think of them.

"Did you eat today?" John muttered in a low voice.

"No."

"Why not? Don't say food isn't important, you know it is in your... Condition."

"I wasn't hungry. I'm never hungry, John."

"You need to eat,"

"I'll eat when I get home, alright?"

"Not good enough. I'll be back in five minutes."

Sherlock groaned as he watched John walk off to buy Sherlock a sandwich. Sherlock bent down to inspect the body. As he stood up again, Lestrade appeared.

"This man worked for the government undercover while working for his real job in a criminal organisation; he beats his wife, his children were sent into care, he's on several drugs and didn't do his job properly, meaning the organisation killed him and dumped him here. Not especially clever criminal organisation, you'll catch them fairly quickly."

"Why are you wearing that hat?" Lestrade stared at Sherlock's head like it was on fire.

"Does it matter?" Sherlock growled. Sherlock continued his deductions when-

"Gotcha!" Anderson pulled the hat off of Sherlock's head. Sherlock whipped round, a look of pure hatred boring into Anderson's eyes.

"Oh my god," Sherlock heard Lestrade mutter. "What happened, Sherlock?"

Sherlock pulled his hat back from Anderson, placing it back on his head.

"What, did an experiment of yours go wrong?" Donovan tittered.

"Two months ago, I was diagnosed with leukaemia."

Everyone stayed silent as the guilt ripped through them.

"I started chemotherapy a month ago and woke up this morning with my hair fallen out. Does that answer your question, Lestrade?" Sherlock spat. He started walking away as John got back.

"Sherlock?"

"We're leaving."

John turned to Lestrade and mouthed, "What did you do?"

Lestrade could only mouth back, "I'm sorry, mate."


	4. Chapter 4

As they arrived home, Sherlock sat in his chair. He pressed a finger to his lips as he thought. John walked over to him. "You alright?"

Sherlock sighed. "I've got leukaemia John, of course I'm not alright."

"I know. I'm sorry. Are you hungry yet?"

"No."

"Well, I got you a sandwich anyway." John threw the sandwich packet over to Sherlock who caught it. "It's all mushed together and... I'm not eating that."

"What do you want then?"

"Nothing, I told you. I'm not hungry."

"Sherlock, I'm not going to let you go on without eating. How about some soup?"

Sherlock looked out the window. "Soup is fine."

Sherlock stood and walked over to the window. He picked up his violin case, opening it and taking out the violin. He adjusted it's tuning and rested the instrument under his chin. Then, he began to play. The music was a soft and sad piece, but altogether beautiful. John listened as he made him soup.

When the soup was done, Sherlock asked if he could eat it in his bedroom and watch tele in there. John accepted of course, taking the television through to Sherlock's room. As he was about to leave, Sherlock stopped him.

"John."

"Yeah?"

"Could you... Could you stay with me?"

John smiled. "Of course." He settled down beside Sherlock on the bed, switching the TV on. When Sherlock finished his soup, he gave the tray to John who placed it on the floor. They continued to watch television until Sherlock linked his hand into John's. John looked over at Sherlock who continued to stare at the screen. "Are you scared?"

"No."

"Then why are you holding my hand?"

"It just... Feels comfortable. It comforts me. You make me feel safe."

John smiled slightly. "I'm glad I can make you feel safe."

"So this is alright?" Sherlock gestured to the hand holding.

"Of course."

"What about this?" Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder.

"Yep."

Sherlock looked up at him. "What about..." Sherlock leant in close to John's face. "This." Their lips touched for less than a second, but there was still electricity bolting through their veins. Sherlock pulled away as soon as he'd done it, waiting for John's reaction. John looked at him, slightly surprised.

"That's... Okay too. That's more than okay."

"Really?" Sherlock moved in again. "What if I did it again?"

"I... I would enjoy it." With that, Sherlock pressed his lips against John's for a second time. Their hands unlinked and became muddled in each other's hair (or scalp in Sherlock's case), the pace of the kiss quickened eagerly. Sherlock rolled on top of John, pinning him down with his legs either side of John's. Suddenly the kiss slowed down on Sherlock's behalf, as he became more and more tired. Eventually he pulled out of the kiss and lay on John's chest. John could tell that Sherlock was seconds away from falling asleep. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Good-goodnight... John."

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"The leukaemia isn't responding to the chemotherapy and is spreading." The doctor said to Sherlock. "We can either double the chemo or try something else."

"Judging on my current state, with and without medication how long will I live?"

"With, implying you do not get better, I would say 2 years." The doctor paused. "Without, less than 6 months." The doctor paused again. "Mr. Holmes, I think it's fair to say that this is a very specific type of leukaemia, T-cell prolymphocytic leukemia. There are other treatments we can give you such as radiation-"

"Do anything. Whatever you think is best. Whatever you think will work." Sherlock stood to leave. "All I want is to be able to get back to work."

Sherlock strutted out of the hospital that he had been in so many times now. John was waiting outside. "So?"

"T-cell prolymphocytic leukemia. I'm not responding to chemo. Leukaemia is spreading. With medication, two years to live, without, less than 6 months."

John stared at Sherlock. Then he pulled him in for a hug. "The detective is dying," John whispered. "The dying detective."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock lay in bed, asleep. John sat at the mostly cleared kitchen table, his head in his hands. He could lose his best friend at any time. If the treatment didn't start working soon, he would be dead in a few months. For real, this time. For the first time since he found out about Sherlock's Leukaemia, John Watson started to cry. He let everything out, there and then. When he had believed Sherlock was dead, he thought about ending it himself. He couldn't stand the nightmares, the constant nightmares, that haunted him while he was asleep and awake. The thought of ending Sherlock's work completely though, made him even more upset. So he stayed alive. He hoped every day that Sherlock would return, and he never did. Until that one night.  
_Sherlock fell from the building, gaining speed. He keeps falling, down and down and down, until he slams onto the ground. There's a huge cracking noise and I run to his side. I push through people and watch in horror as they roll his body over, his face covered in blood, his cold, hard blue eyes wide open. Forever staring._  
_John sat up in bed screaming, throwing his hands to his face, the sobs racking through his body. He cradled his knees up by his chest, trying to calm himself down. This happened every night. Every night he would wake up screaming from the nightmares, then he would rock himself gently and look out the window at the moon._  
_But this time, there was a figure in front of the window. John stopped rocking and stared. Slowly, he leaned over and turned the light on. There before him stood Sherlock Holmes, his Sherlock Holmes. John stared at him, swearing that his heart stopped for a few beats. "Sher-" he tried. "Sherlock?"_  
_"John." He had scars and cuts and bruises covering his face and hands from what John could see. "I'm so sorry. It was Moriarty, I had to kill the killers that would come after you if they found out I was alive, I did it for you-" John stood up and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. He held on for a whole minute. He pulled back and looked up at Sherlock._  
_"I thought you were dead."_  
_"I know."_  
_"I thought you would never ever come back. I thought I was alone forever."_  
_"I know."_  
_"I knew you weren't a fake. I never believed you were. Never."_  
_Sherlock smiled. "Thank you, John." That early morning, the two sat in the lounge talking and talking about what had happened in the last three years. Sherlock had killed off Moriarty's men. John had nearly committed suicide. But they both forgave each other, for everything._  
John was pulled out of the memory by wild shrieking coming from Sherlock's room. He ran to his room, seeing Sherlock writhing in agony on his bed. His eyes were wild as his body went into spasm. "JOHN!" He screeched, his arm outstretched, searching for John. "JOHN, I CAN'T TAKE IT!"  
John took his hand and kissed it, before opening the drawer and pulling out a small bag which was there in emergencies like this. All 10 pills in one bag, easy for when the pain was at its highest. "Come on, Sherlock," John said, "Keep in control." He took one pill out, putting it to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock swallowed it instantly, waiting for the rest. After all 10 pills, the pain slowed to a stop and Sherlock became drowsy. His eyelids fluttered but he continued to stare at John.  
"John," he muttered in a slurred voice. "Stay with me, stay with me please."  
John laid down beside Sherlock on his bed, holding his hand, stroking his head. John waited with Sherlock until he woke up again an hour later. "John?" He seemed alarmed when he didn't spot John straight away, but calmed down after noticing he was right beside him. Sherlock rested against John, sighing softly. They didn't need to talk to understand each other's feelings. They never had. It wasn't until an hour later that John spoke.

"Where did the scar on the back of your head come from?"  
Sherlock sighed. "Alright, it seems I won't be able to continue my life without telling you." Sherlock sat up and crossed his legs so he could look at John. "Mycroft and I's father was a genius. He truly was, until he began drinking. He drank an excessive amount, we tried to stop him, we tried to help him. But you see, when he was drunk, which was always… He was angry. And abusive." Sherlock paused to watch John's reaction as it clicked. "When I was 11, Mycroft was 18. He left our household straight away, went to University. Left me and my mother to deal with our father. I was his number 1 target.  
"Usually it wouldn't be so bad. He'd punch me, kick me, break a bone. I could deal with all that. I never stood up to him because I knew that he loved me inside. Until one day, when it changed. I realised that caring was not an advantage, almost the opposite. I stood up to him. I told him I wouldn't let him hurt me or my mother any longer. I told my mother to pack her bags and we'd leave him, go and stay with Mycroft in his house for a while. He punched me and kicked me to the floor but I got back up, I hit him back in the jaw. The fury in his eyes still haunts me now. He lifted me up with his hand at my throat, pressing me against the wall. He spoke all these little hateful comments, all these insults. I tried to kick him but I couldn't reach. Then he pulled me back from the wall, and pushed my skull against it hard. He heard a crack and dropped me immediately, running off. My mother found me and took me to hospital. They fixed my head, but it left a huge scar."  
John blinked. "He... Abused you?"  
Sherlock nodded. "That is why Mycroft and I do not speak often face to face. Too much history between us, some may even be worse than the abuse."  
"Mycroft left you to deal with that?"  
"I suppose it wasn't entirely his fault. He couldn't stay with us forever. He was abused as well as me, though not as badly."  
"Sherlock, I had no idea..."  
"It's fine, John."  
They remained in silence for a while. "Do you ever... Do you ever think of him?"  
"Only when I'm scared, which until this leukaemia came on, wasn't often."  
"Right." John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock on the lips. He pulled back. "I'm scared for you."  
"I know. I heard you crying in the kitchen before the pain came back."  
"Oh. You weren't supposed to hear that..."  
"John." Sherlock pulled him back in, putting his hand on the back of John's head. John leaned forward onto Sherlock as he lay back. Their bodies pressed together and their faces centimetres away, they kissed again. It wasn't sexual. They didn't feel like ripping each other's clothes off. They just wanted to lie together and kiss out of love, not out of lust.  
Even though neither of them spoke about their relationship, they both loved each other deep down.

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**Author's Note: cheesy ending ahmagad. So glad you're all enjoying this story, I've been given tons of reviews for it so thank you for reviewing and following and favouriting the story! :D** **  
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	6. Chapter 6

A week later and Sherlock was too weak to walk, and so was given a wheelchair. Sherlock could walk around for a short amount of time before collapsing.

John pushed Sherlock along, arriving at the crime scene. John greeted Lestrade before pushing Sherlock over to inspect the body. Sherlock stood up and crouched down beside it, checking every detail imaginable. After explaining that the dead person was in fact the murderer of several other crimes before killing them self, Sherlock felt a twist in his stomach. "So Lestrade, as you can clearly see- Argh!" Sherlock clutched his stomach and John ran over. He lifted him into the chair.  
"Did you take your medication this morning?"  
"I didn't have time!"  
"Alright, hang on a second."  
"Hurry up, John, I am not having a fit in front of all these people!"

As John got out all the medication, Lestrade and his team watched in bewilderment that the great Sherlock Holmes could be reduced to caring about other people seeing him ill. After taking all the pills, Sherlock started to get tired. "John," he whined. "I'm tired. Can we go please?"  
Lestrade stopped them. "Did Sherlock just say please?"  
"Yes, Lestrade. Shut up or I'll... Your wife is... P.E. teacher..." Sherlock fell asleep in his chair, his head hung.  
"Is he getting any better, John?" Lestrade asked.  
"No. Not at all, Lestrade."

When Sherlock woke up, he was at home. He realised he'd fallen asleep at the crime scene again. He sat up, staring into space. Out of nowhere, he jumped out of bed, running around his room kicking and trashing his own belongings. "DAMN IT!" He screamed, throwing books to the floor, pulling his sheets off the bed, kicking his chair over. He started hitting his head against the wall, punching and kicking it, before John ran in. "Sherlock! Sherlock, calm down!"  
"NO, JOHN." Sherlock said. His tear-stricken face turned to him, anger deep in his eyes. "Why should I? Because I'm ill, John? Because I'm not supposed to walk, John? Because I can't do a FUCKING-" Sherlock paused to kick the bedside table over - "THING because I have cancer. CANCER, CANCER. ALL THINGS CANCER. CANCER THIS, CANCER THAT. What am I, John? What do you see when you look at me? Sherlock Holmes, Consulting detective? Or do you see Sherlock Holmes, the cancer patient? Because all I see when I look in the mirror is the FUCKING ILLNESS." Sherlock started to attack things again. John shouted at him but he wouldn't listen. "Sherlock, please! You're hurting yourself more!"  
"Good! I hope I die because a life like this isn't worth living!"  
Suddenly, the crashing stopped. After Sherlock's words were spoken, he went to break something but paused hearing the snivels of his best friend, roommate and love of his life. He turned to see John, staring at Sherlock, tears down his face. Sherlock walked over to him, putting his arms around him. John reciprocated. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."  
"It's not your fault." Sherlock's voice broke in that moment. With Sherlock's tears staining John's jumper, he gently ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair comfortingly. When the tears stopped, he thought it meant Sherlock had stopped crying. Instead, Sherlock had fallen asleep. John carried him to the bed and lay down beside him.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock was taken to hospital the next day. His condition was so bad that there was no hope left for a miracle. John sat by Sherlock's side, holding his hand. Sherlock would often mutter things to John; 'at least you don't need to worry about the medication anymore', 'maybe you could settle down for once'. Sherlock liked to think these were kind words. Often they would discuss memories, the first time they met, the great cases they solved. The good memories. Sometimes they would sit in silence and just watch each other think.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was sudden, surprising John slightly. His voice had become weaker since joining the hospital. He didn't shout anymore when he was angry or upset, only sighed. What was the use in shouting when no one could listen?  
"Yes Sherlock?"  
"I want to see Mycroft."

When Mycroft arrived, John was asked to wait outside. Mycroft slowly entered the room, closing the door quietly. "What is it, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked. The annoyance that would usually tint his words when talking to his younger brother was now gone, replaced by what can only be described as calm.  
"Sit with me."  
Mycroft sat down in the chair by the bed, watching his little brother.  
"Mycroft, I want to see mother."  
"You know we can't, Sherlock-"  
"Please. I'm going to die, for Christ's sake. I haven't seen her in so long, at least let me see her once again before I die."  
Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock... You know what father did to her. She's not the same anymore," he sighed again in frustration. "She's different now. She doesn't speak."  
"Mycroft, please."  
"...I'll see what I can do."  
"Thank you. Oh, another thing..." Sherlock paused. "Don't inform father of my death. I don't want to give him the sweet victory of outliving me."  
"Alright. Sherlock... I'm sorry."  
"For what, may I ask?"  
"Everything. Leaving you and mother with that monster. Telling Moriarty about you. Being the cause of the fall and everyone thinking you're a fake."  
"Oh please, you couldn't have stayed around forever. Anyway, telling Moriarty was half the fun. Bring me mother, and ask John to fetch Molly for me, would you?"  
Mycroft nodded, closing the door as he left. He turned to John. "I think he's convinced it's his last couple of days. He wants to see mother."  
"Why now? Why does he want to see your mother now?" John had never found any information out about Sherlock's mother. There was never any time to talk about it.  
"He wants to see her one last time before he dies. I think he hopes there is still part of herself left inside the empty shell," Mycroft sighed, the pain obvious in his eyes.  
"What do you mean?"  
Mycroft looked away. "Sherlock and I… Had a bad upbringing. Our father-"  
"He abused you. Sherlock told me that."  
"Really? He doesn't tell anyone that sort of thing. Then again, you're not anyone are you?" Mycroft smiled slightly. "Anyway, our father abused us and our mother when he was drunk. I left for university at 18, leaving them alone with him. I had always had to stand up to him you see, make sure he didn't do too much damage. That's when mother and Sherlock got hurt the most. Mother never recovered from the pain; the outside pain was simple to be fixed, but inside…" Mycroft sighed again, "Will never be fixed. She is a shell of her former self."  
John clapped on Mycroft's shoulder for support. "What was she like? In her former self?"  
Mycroft smiled. "She was the kindest, bravest person I've ever known. A smile always on her face. She never let anyone down, never disappointed anyone, never hurt them. She was an angel to my brother and I."  
Mycroft nodded his farewell, walking away. "Sherlock wants you to send Molly in, by the way." He says loudly, facing forward.


	8. Chapter 8

"Sherlock? You asked to see me?" Molly crept into Sherlock's hospital room, her hair up in its usual ponytail. Sherlock smiled slightly as she walked in. Not the smile he used when he wanted something. Not the smile he faked when acting. A genuine, honest smile from Sherlock Holmes. His cheekbones protruded from his face, unbelievably paler than usual. His curly dark brown hair contrasted to his skin exceptionally. Molly walked over to him, looking pitiful and expectant.  
"Thank you." Sherlock said, words broken in places.  
"For what?"  
"Oh you know. Letting me stay with you after the Fall. Helping me fake my death. Being a good friend."  
Molly smiled, trying not to cry. "I didn't do that much."  
"Molly, you're too insecure. You should start believing that you're special. You're beautiful, kind, most of all, important."  
"Sherlock-" Molly bit her lip, the tears falling down her cheeks.  
"I will miss you, Molly Hooper." Sherlock smiled again, the tears falling down off of his chin. "Can you do one thing for me, after I'm gone?"  
"Anything."  
"Look after John."  
Molly nodded, wiping her eyes. "I will. I'll see you in a few days, Sherlock." She ran out of the room, searching for tissues in her pockets as the tears got too much.  
John came in, looking at Sherlock, confused. Sherlock smiled to himself. "I wasn't rude, John. I was genuine."  
John came over to him, sliding his hand into Sherlock's. "I'm glad."  
Sherlock's face fell. "John, you know I'm going to leave soon-"  
"Please. Can we not talk about it now? I'm not ready. I'm not ready to lose you again."  
Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line. "I don't have long left, you know that. I want to leave with a proper goodbye, this time."  
There was a tap on the door. A nurse put her head through. "Mr. Holmes, your brother is here with your mother."


	9. Chapter 9

The door opened and John stood back from Sherlock. Mycroft entered pushing a wheelchair holding a small, frail woman. She looked at her hands, twiddling her thumbs. Mycroft pushed her over to Sherlock's bedside, tapping her lightly on the shoulder. The woman looked up at Mycroft, who looked over at Sherlock. The woman followed his gaze, finding her youngest son. "Sherlock?" She looked confused.  
"Hello, mother." He smiled weakly at her. He lifted his hand out to her and she rested her hand in his.  
"Why are we here, Sherly?" John looked questioningly to Sherlock about the nickname but Sherlock ignored his gaze. He wanted to give his full attention to his mother, this time. The woman who had given him the humanity behind the brains.  
"Mother, I'm not very well. I haven't been for a while, now." Sherlock watched her intently. She looked calm, expectant. "Mother, I've got cancer."  
Her eyes glazed over. Her lips pressed into a thin line. "What?" She said quietly.  
"Cancer, mother."  
"No," She looked at Sherlock, her blank eyes darting around the room. "Not my Sherly, not my Sherly-"  
"It's okay, mother, it's okay-"  
"He did this!" She yelled, trying to stand from her wheelchair. She grabbed onto Mycroft for support. "He did this! I-I won't let this family be hurt anymore by him!"  
"Mother!" Sherlock said assertively. She looked down at him, tears forming in her eyes. "He didn't cause this. No one caused it. It was merely coincidental. Mother, I need you to understand this. I'm dying and I don't have long left. I just wanted to say goodbye to you and that you've been an amazing mother to me and Mycroft."  
Sherlock's mother looked around the room. "May I have a moment alone with my son?" Mycroft nodded, helping her back into her wheelchair and stepping outside, John right behind him. Once the door was closed, Sherlock's mother looked back at Sherlock. "Who's that other man?"  
"That's John. He's my… Flatmate."  
His mother smiled. "I may be old and falling to pieces my dear boy, but I am not stupid. I saw the way he looked at you. True love, I'll bet." She chuckled softly. Sherlock loved to hear her laugh. "Looks like an army doctor to me. Interesting choice, Sherlock. How long have you been together?"  
"Oh. I don't know, it's not really an official thing…"  
"Maybe you should make it official then." She smiled.  
"For you mother, I'd do anything." Sherlock said, smiling back. "Do you remember when Mycroft and I were little and we'd both try and make you the best mother's day card and want to be the favourite child and after all our work, you'd tell us that you loved us both the same?"  
"Of course I remember. There was one year when you had made put a musical chip in your card which sang my favourite song."  
"You remembered? I must be the favourite child then."  
His mother batted his arm playfully. "I remember Mycroft's too; he made a pop up card with a music chip inside."  
Sherlock's smile fell slightly. "Mycroft and I…" He started, "We thought we'd lost you. We thought you'd left us in the dark."  
"I know." She muttered. She took his hand again, wrapping it around his. "I have good days and bad days… I just wish… I wish I had time to come and see you again."  
"So do I, mother. I never got to tell you about all the wonderful cases I've solved; all the people I've met…" Faces flashed before Sherlock's eyes as he realised he was leaving them all behind. John. Molly. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. Mycroft. Anderson. Donovan. Irene Adler. He smiled. His memories landed on the final face of a man who was no longer alive, who was his worst enemy yet he was exactly like him. Jim Moriarty. The devilish smirk on Moriarty's face lay engraved into Sherlock's mind forever. He looked back at his mother. She smiled at him tiredly, yawning.  
"You should go and sleep, mother."  
"No, I need to stay with you… You're…" Her eyes closed and she slumped back in her chair. Sherlock leaned over the bed and kissed her head, hugging her tightly before letting go. He gave Mycroft the signal through the window. Mycroft quietly slid inside, wheeling Mrs. Holmes out of Sherlock's room. Sherlock slumped back in his bed, his head facing to the side. John came in and stood beside him, taking his hand.  
"Sherlock?" He said softly.  
A single tear rolled down Sherlock's cheek as Sherlock turned to look at him. John lent down to kiss him gently on the lips and Sherlock encouraged it, resting his hand on the back of John's head. When John pulled back, Sherlock stared at him. "John?"  
"Yes?"  
Sherlock looked down, then back up at John. "I love you."


	10. Chapter 10

John stared back at Sherlock. He wanted in that moment to burst into tears, get down on his knees and beg Sherlock not to die, hold onto him for the rest of his life and not let go.  
John didn't do that.  
He smiled softly, replying "I love you too," before kissing Sherlock again. Before he could stop himself, he was crying, his tears mixing with Sherlock's, staining their clothes. As John pulled back, Sherlock chuckled weakly.  
"Think of how many more experiments I could have done now we're in a relationship…" He sighed. John laughed about the fact this annoyed him.  
"You've still got a possible week left," John muttered, stroking Sherlock's curls. "Unfortunately you won't be able to do most experiments you had in mind seeing as you're in hospital."  
"Oh, I'm sure we can find a quiet place…" Sherlock grinned and looked up at John.  
"Tell me something." John said suddenly. Sherlock looked up from him with sleep-coated eyes. He had been napping for a while when he woke from a nightmare where everyone he loved had died instead of him. After sobbing for a while into John's jacket, they had remained in silence until John asked this question.  
"What is it you wish me to tell?" Sherlock smiled weakly.  
"Something I don't know about you. Anything at all." John rested his elbows on his knees, his face resting in his hands.  
"I knew you were gay from the moment I met you."  
"What?! I didn't even know then!"  
"I know, you must have had some idea though… You were in the army."  
"…Yes, and?"  
"Don't soldiers get sexually frustrated from time to time?"  
John blushed slightly. "Okay, so maybe I messed around a bit in the army. I still didn't think I was gay," John laughed suddenly. "You sound like your old self."  
"What do I sound like now?" Sherlock muttered quietly. John looked over at him, realising his comment may have been hurtful.  
"You sound like you, but with more feelings," He said soothingly, "More human." Sherlock accepted these words as a compliment, leaving it at that.

* * *

**Author's note: I'm so sorry I missed a day yesterday! I've had tons of stuff going on recently with life and such. Sorry also for the short chapter, I've got a little bit of writer's block D: I'll try and make the next part really long and good and special and stuff. I started writing another fic the other day about Sherlock on drugs because I've wanted to do that for AGES, and I have lots of other ideas too, so do not panic when this fic ends! (Which will be soon... Spoilers ;D) Thank you for reading and reviewing! x**


	11. Chapter 11

John watched Sherlock as he got progressively worse throughout the week. He spent an entire day sleeping, only waking in the early morning to find John fast asleep beside his bed, Sherlock irritated with himself completely. While John slept, Sherlock withdrew a sketchbook from under his pillow. Ever since he had been out in hospital he knew there was no hope left, so he had started to write and draw. He drew the images in his mind palace, under the section 221B in category John. He sketched him and John together, them kissing, them embracing, eating out together, even running after to criminals. Sherlock hasn't let John see the sketchbook; he wanted to leave it for him after he died. The sketchbook was almost full to the brim with portraits, photos engraved in his memory, a few case notes which John had been extremely important in solving the case, and on the last page, a letter to John. He spoke to Mycroft, instructing him not to let John or any other nurse or doctor, ANYONE to see this sketchbook until he had gone. Sherlock had turned out to be quite artistic; his drawings were almost like photographs, the accuracy was astounding. Sherlock flicked through his drawings, making small corrections on each pages, writing comments underneath. John started to stir and Sherlock quickly whipped the sketchbook out of site. John looked up as this happened, rubbing his eyes. "What's that?" He said sleepily.

"Nothing, love." Sherlock said, smiling at him.

"Sherlock," John said, putting his head into Sherlock's lap. "I don't know how I'll- I don't know what I'll do once you've-" John gulped back the tears, trying to look straight at Sherlock. When John failed at not crying, Sherlock hushed him, pulling him onto the bed entirely beside him. "Sherlock-" John tried again, his voice overtaken by sobs.

"I know, John. You'll find someone else; maybe a woman this time. Settle down, get married, have kids-"

"No!" John yelled, sitting up straight and staring widely at Sherlock. "Why do you think I'd ever do that? Do you really not know how much you mean to me?"

Sherlock felt a clench around his heart. John jumped off the bed, pacing around the small room, steam coming from his ears in anger. "Did you ever think I could marry someone else - find someone else even - after I met you? I can't do that! Especially not with a woman, I'm gay, remember?! Sherlock sometimes you can so... Stupid! You can't honestly expect me to..." His voice trailed off as he caught the grin on Sherlock's face. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing's funny, it's just you when your angry is a massive turn on." John chuckled, returning to sit with Sherlock. "It's a shame we can't put that anger to good use, Dr. Watson."

Avoiding Sherlock's glance, John muttered quietly, "there's still time you know. They can still cure you..."

"John."

"It's amazing what medicine can do these days, they'll find something-"

"John." John finally looked up into Sherlock's usually piercing eyes, which were now soft and sad. "Stop, now. It's too late, my dear."

John sniffed. "One more miracle," he muttered, resting back on Sherlock's chest. "One more miracle."

* * *

The next day was spent saying final goodbyes to everyone. Lestrade visited with some others of Scotland Yard, including Sally Donovan and even Anderson (though Sherlock didn't seem particularly pleased to see him either). Mrs. Hudson came and cried, Molly came and tried not to cry and failed, Harry Watson appeared too to say her goodbyes. Everyone eventually left, leaving John and Mycroft.

"Brother, you know I will monitor your status until you have gone completely... I will monitor it from elsewhere though, as you two obviously would prefer to be alone."

"Thank you, Mycroft." Mycroft went to the door when Sherlock stopped him. "Don't forget about it, after I'm gone. It's important." Mycroft nodded understandingly, before leaving. John looked at Sherlock.

"What do you mean? What's it?"

Sherlock smiled. "It's unimportant right now. You will find out soon, I promise. Now let us spend our time wisely."


	12. Chapter 12

John awoke to the sound of a straight-forward noise, no bleeping, just a continuous noise. He looked over at Sherlock's asleep face, his expression resting in a smile. John brushed his fingers over Sherlock's cheek, pulling back quickly in response. His cheeks were like ice. Suddenly, as if he had woken up for the second time, realisation hit him as to what the noise was. He jumped up, glaring over at Sherlock's heart rate monitor. A straight green line stood out from the screen, running through John's head, screaming "I've taken him from you, he's gone, he's mine now". John started panicking, screeching, calling for a nurse or doctor. He started CPR, trying desperately to restart Sherlock's heart. He pressed his mouth to Sherlock's, breathing his air into Sherlock's oxygen-starved lungs. After moments, John was pulled off by various doctors, instructing him it was too late. He fought against their grip, as a nurse stood beside Sherlock, announcing his time of death. Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, was dead. As the doctors loosened their grips, John fell to the floor, defeated. The doctors left, giving John a moment alone. He stood up, steadying himself, and walked over to Sherlock's side where he had stood so many times before. As John held onto the cold hand that had belonged to his deceased partner, his love, his 'something', he felt his bones start to crack and crumble beneath his skin as he broke up into a million tiny pieces. John pressed a soft kiss against Sherlock's icy forehead, before letting go of his hand. He turned around, heading out of the door and not turning back.

* * *

Tap tap tap. John sat in his chair, his head in his hands. He knew someone was at the door but he didn't want to answer it. He didn't want to talk to anyone unless they were Sherlock resurrected from the dead. Again. John listened contently, waiting for them to leave. Instead, he heard the front door open. The person at the front door had been let in by someone; Mrs. Hudson no doubt, and they were walking promptly up the stairs to Sherlock- John's flat.

"John, I have something for you." Mycroft's voice, usually so full of pride and disgust for everyone else, lay on a low tone with nothing but sadness entwined. The last time John had seen Mycroft was at Sherlock's funeral, which very few people attended. That was preferable, of course.  
"I don't want to fill out more forms, Mycroft," John's voice was croaky from all the crying. "Can't you do them?"  
"John, this is not a form of any sort. This is from Sherlock, before he died." John turned to face Mycroft, a small glimmer of hope resting in John's eyes. "What is it?"  
"A sketchbook; I was instructed to not let anyone see it until Sherlock had passed away, and after not let anyone see it without your permission, as it is a present to you." Mycroft passed the sketchbook over to John, John clutching onto it with his life. "I'll see you soon, John. I'll be checking in with you occasionally." Mycroft then left, and John was alone again. He sat back in his chair, the sketchbook on his lap. He took in the outside first; the leather bound case, John and Sherlock's names written in calligraphy on the front. John picked up the book and smelled it, inhaling Sherlock's scent. After taking a deep breath, John opened the sketchbook.

On the first page was a list of Sherlock's belongings; what John could do with them or was suggested to do with them. John turned the next page, gasping. He saw the pictures of him and Sherlock, mostly John, drawn from different angles showing different expressions. Sherlock had written labels under these expressions. 'John's "fed up with Sherlock" face' read one. John laughed quietly, joy returning to him. He turned page after page; it appeared Sherlock had managed to fill the whole sketchbook. He saw other portraits in the cases section he had included - portraits of Molly and Lestrade, even one of Donovan and Anderson stood together. John laughed again at the comments Sherlock had written underneath them. Finally, John got to the final page. Written in Sherlock's elegant script, John began to read:

_Dear John,_  
_I hope you were given this sketchbook after I died, if it was before, or a long time afterwards, then let's just pass all the blame onto Mycroft. There were things I never had time to tell you, only because the timing would have been incorrect and somehow not right. First of all, I love you. You knew that already, but I still wanted to tell you, so you had it in writing. Secondly, if it weren't for this blasted cancer, I could honestly say I wanted to marry you. I, Sherlock Holmes, wanted to marry you, John Watson. It's a strange feeling, being in love. I've never felt anything quite like it; it makes this odd feeling in my stomach when I think of you, increases my heart rate and dilates my pupils. Whenever you're asleep or at work, I imagine you being with another person like all your 'girlfriends' you had, and it made me unreasonably angry. Is that what love is? Jealousy? Even though you annoy me sometimes with our petty arguments, you still somehow intrigue me and make me desperate to regain your affection! If that is love, it is what I feel for you, because in all honesty, there never was anyone else. Not even Irene; my 'feelings' towards her were strictly to see how you would react to me caring for someone. It was an experiment, John! I can see you now, pacing back and forth in my hospital room, flinging your arms in the air and giving me glares which I find oddly attractive. I wish we had more time, John. Like, I wish we could ask The Doctor from that silly Sci-Fi programme you love so much, to take us back in time for a few more days. Marriage, now that would have been interesting. Children? Unlikely, unless you wanted them. You'd have to care of them when they were at their youngest of course; babies are revolting. At least when they are a small child so I could teach them. Interesting, that's what that would be. Measuring the intelligence of the children, provided we had more than one..._  
_Children with you, now that'd be an adventure. An adventure I sadly have to miss out on. _  
_Jonathan Hamish Watson, I wish I could be holding you right now. Obviously I'm not one for physical activities, but for you, John, I'd do anything. I would have done anything. I made this sketchbook for you because I have never felt so much self-hatred before; when I had to leave you before, when I faked my death, it was killed me emotionally to hear updates about you from Mycroft. I knew you were alive but you didn't know I was. Now, I'm leaving you again, but this time there is no hope for me coming back at all, and I'm sorry, John, I am. I wish I could be with you for forever. Out of all the people in the world that I met, you were the only one to shine._

_I love you._

_Sherlock Holmes_

_x_


End file.
